8/8/2019 Untold Stories From My Russian Childhood

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 Those were the farewell days of Indo-Soviet romance (Soviet Union was to fall &

disintegrate) and an entire generation of Indian would-be ‘intellectual’ kids was

thriving on stories of Russian origin. As a part of its brilliant foreign strategy, KGB

had successfully infiltrated India’s scholarly souk with Russian literature. Chacha

Chowdhry, Billoo, Super Commando Dhruv were yet to arrive on the doorsteps of 

my mind and I had already found a dreamland made up of wood sunk knee deep insnow.

 The book fairs had special Russian stalls which flared with stories of brave princes

and beautiful princesses, of how czar was always the oppressor and how peasants

fought him. Their socialist communism was beyond the grasp of my juvenile mind,

nonetheless not too distant either.

I wished my name was Ivan and I lived in a huge palace, lofty towers in between

with onion tops. I wished I could go on adventures galloping miles across the

mountains, valleys, jungles and the rivers to fight the evil monsters and sorcerers to

win my princess – her skin as fair as milk. And there was Baba-yaga, the witchcroaky, ugly yet sensitive to the good. Her hut was always on the edge of the forest,

standing on the feet of chicken! It had its back to the visitor and turned around only

if the visitor asked for it. How fun would it be to make a hole in the ice on the frozen

river and drop bait for a fish that would come out and ask its captor in human voice

to leave it so that it could go back to its children. I would have a dog as fierce as a

wolf for my pet and a horse with golden hair, falling to one side radiating royalty

with every step. Stories of how magical instruments could guide someone to their

destiny still magnetize me.

However, to think that Russian stories were entirely different from the ‘snow less’

world would not be true. In some of the stories there would always be a cruel step-mother, who would throw the good step child out in the snow left to die of chill and

hunger. A simple village girl’s ugly step sisters would be jealous of radiance on her

face. I believe they have a universal theme all over the world, the virtuous staying

patient and eventually thrashing the malevolent.

It was a time when czar still ruled from St. Petersburg and Moscow was no more

than a mere tavern for farmers and peasants. Kiev was the stronghold of rich and

poor didn’t exist within the boundaries of the opulent city. Only in the more mature

years of my life did I understand that the writers always reflected the real

impression of oppression of the weak in the country which culminated in the

Bolshevik revolution in 1917. In fact, I also read a book based on the mutiny inside

the city spearheaded by a trapeze artist – Tibul, who fell in love with the innocent

young daughter of the czar while dodging the royal soldiers in the streets. Though it

was bustling with violence, writer made special notes to justify the justice brought

to the oppressors.

8/8/2019 Untold Stories From My Russian Childhood

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 The thick books are still one of my most prized possessions, their stories etched in

my mind forever. I may never live in towers with onion tops but I certainly did try to

name myself Ivan (unsuccessfully, of course). And that is why, it was through the

Bolsheviks (and not Indian revolutionaries) that I understood why writers, poets and

artists were in the center stage of any rebellious change; the history from the soviet

snow however bloody, had already tasted me, much, much before the NCERThistory did.